


A Brittle Madness

by tijuanabiblestudies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, SGRUB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tijuanabiblestudies/pseuds/tijuanabiblestudies
Summary: “Is this about your blood color?”“No, it’s about my shoe size. Of course it’s about my blood color, dipshit.”





	A Brittle Madness

Moving the rocks that block the path to the back of the cave is wriggler’s play for one with your STRENGTH. Moving them in the correct order so as to avoid a further cave-in is trickier, but you manage. As the gap widens, the voice of your leader issues from behind the rockfall. “Hello? Is someone there? Oh, thank fuck.”

“I will have you out shortly,” you reply.

Vantas groans. “Shit, it’s _you_. Unthank fuck.”

“I am aware that you and I are not the best of friends,” you say, retrieving your battery-powered lantern from the cave floor and stepping through the now sufficiently large gap, “but surely even my assistance is better than none at all.”

“You’d think so, but—fuck, don’t point that light at me. And don’t come any closer.”

“Are you injured?”

“Go away.” Had he spoken in a more authoritative tone, you might have been compelled to obey. But his voice is high and quavering, and as you approach, he scrabbles backward and flattens himself against the rear wall of the cave. “It’s not—it’s not that bad, I’ll get it patched up later, thanks for moving the rocks, now just please go _away_ \--”

“Stop being ridiculous.” You decaptchalogue your first aid kit and continue to advance. Quite aside from anything else, your moirail would never forgive you if you left him to fend for himself when you could have offered assistance. “My antipathy toward you is not such that I would--” Oh. Oh, wait. “Is this about your blood color?”

“No, it’s about my shoe size. Of course it’s about my blood color, dipshit.” The thin veneer of sarcasm does nothing to conceal the terror beneath.

“Oh, for pete’s sake—Vantas, I don’t _care_ about your blood color, all right?”

He is momentarily stunned into silence. “...Okay, either I’m hallucinating from the pain or you’ve contracted some kind of thinkpan-hijacking parasite, because there’s no way Equius ‘if the hemospectrum had a bulge I’d take it in every available orifice’ Zahhak just said what I thought he said.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“Uh, yeah, dude. That’s kind of my whole shtick. One of us has to stay on brand here.”

“Will you let me see to your injuries now?”

“Yeah okay let me just think about that for a _hell fucking no._ ”

You sigh in frustration. “What in blazes are you afraid of?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That you’ll cull me with your bare hands, maybe?”

Something in your thoracic cavity twists uncomfortably. “Vantas.” You try to keep your voice gentle. “Karkat. You have nothing to fear from me, I promise.” He blinks at you in surprise. “I...apologize for anything I may have said or done in the past to make you think you did.”

Once again, he is quiet for a few seconds. He draws in a long, shuddering breath. “Okay. Still haven’t ruled out the thinkpan parasite thing, but...okay.”

He turns around. He lied when he said it wasn’t that bad; a deep gash runs from his left shoulder to his right hip, drenched in vivid scarlet.

Well. That is...not what you expected.

You clear your throat. “Remove your shirt, please.” He does, and you dampen a clean towel with water from your canteen and begin cleaning the wound. Red stains bloom across the towel— _filthy, illicit, depraved_ —you shut down that line of thought. Sweaty hands are the last thing you need right now.

“This will need stitches,” you say. Karkat grunts noncommittally.

You use your lightest touch, as if handling a particularly delicate bit of machinery. Karkat whimpers at the sting of your needle, and you make soothing noises at him, such as one might use to calm a frightened hoofbeast. His blood glistens like rubies in the light of the lantern.

You tie off the final stitch and apply a bandage. After tidying away your medical supplies, you look up to find him in tears.

You touch his shoulder lightly. “What’s wrong?”

He scrubs at his face. “Fuck, I don’t—I just, it’s been a really rough night, and now you’re being all nice to me, and I can’t—I don’t know what my feelings are doing right now. I’ll be fine, just—give me a minute, okay?”

You wonder what it says about his life up to this point, that kindness makes him cry.

Pity wells up inside you, warm and thick and bittersweet. _To heck with it_ , you think, and gather him—gently, gently—into your arms.

You half-expect to be pushed away, but it seems all the fight has gone out of him. Only when he is cradled against your chest and sobbing into your shoulder does it occur to you that he is still very much not wearing a shirt.

Oh, well. Nothing to be done about that now.

“Sorry,” he says after the sobs taper off. “I’m fucking pathetic.”

“On the contrary,” you say. “That you have managed to survive as long as you have is a testament to your fortitude.”

He snorts. “To my cowardice, more like.”

“You are many things,” you say. “A coward is not one of them.”

“Yeah right. How do you think I got this wound on my back?”

“I...had not thought about it.”

“By running away. Like a coward.”

You pause, choosing your words carefully. “To live in fear, as I imagine you must have, every second of your life, and to persist regardless...that is not what I would call cowardice. In fact, I would say that it is the very opposite.”

He says nothing. You think he might be crying again. You begin to comb your fingertips through his hair.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re gonna make Nepeta jealous if you keep this up.”

“Even if she were here,” you reply, “and even if she were prone to excessive jealousy, which she isn’t...well. I believe, under the circumstances, she would understand.”

“Mmm.” He presses a little closer and nuzzles at your shoulder.

You wonder how long it has been since he last received an affectionate touch. You think of how terrified he was that you were going to cull him.

You pity him so much it _hurts_.

“The sun will be rising soon,” you say. “We should spend the day here.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Tired.”

“You may sleep, if you wish. I will protect you.”

“’Kay.” He slides down until his head is resting in your lap. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Within minutes, he is snoring. You wonder if he knows that when you said you would protect him, you meant not just for today, but for the duration of this wretched game—and beyond, assuming you both live that long. You wonder if he will take objection to that, if you tell him when he wakes. You wonder if Nepeta will indeed be jealous—not of him, but of you.

You decide these are problems for another time, and you lose yourself in the rhythm of his breathing, and the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks, and the warmth of his skin under your hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [tijuanabiblestudies](http://tijuanabiblestudies.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr. Come say hi!


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